


Weak & Wanting

by TragicTaco



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, Feelings, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, M/M, Not Beta Read, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22379134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TragicTaco/pseuds/TragicTaco
Summary: Even though he's seen the way Jaskier looks at him when the minstrel thinks he's unaware, noted the gentle tone and lingering touches, knows how the smaller form feels tucked against his side for warmth, is intimately aware of how much ground he's given the other man and still remains unsure of when, exactly, he began letting the walls down.Did they tumble all at once or was it methodical, brick by brick?*NOTICE THE RATING IS NOW EXPLICIIIIT*
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 595





	1. Geraskier Works

**Author's Note:**

> Tripped, fell, landed on another ship. 
> 
> Greetings, lovelies! As you can see, I am not dead though I have taken a break from Venom works to explore other fandoms. This little diddy is a take on how Geralt might discover his feelings for a certain doe eyed bard. Do let me know what you think. :)
> 
> Be warned, I have not read the novels or played the games (yet) so this fic is entirely based on the Netflix adaptation and the information I've gleaned from the internet. Take it as such.

Geralt isn't sure when he noticed that Jaskier retains little standards in regard to his bedmates. In all other areas of life the man demands finery; silk outfits, flavorful food, only the best linseed oil for his beloved instrument. Lovers, however, there's little pattern to the trysts. Young, old, rich, poor, single, _married_ , women, men, a few Geralt couldn't identify even on scent. Doesn't seem to matter what path they walked provided that their bed was warm and their bodies willing. Now, it's not that the troubadour falls into bed willy nilly- well, he _does-_ but many times Geralt has witnessed the man peeling overly drunken maidens from his shoulders or taking one home, tripping over her heels, and returning within minutes bearing a shy smile and a shrug for the witchers curious glances. So, he has _some_ standards, maybe they're just astronomically low, but they exist nonetheless.

That's none of Geralt's business though, at least it isn't _supposed_ to be so he can't understand why he keeps _thinking_ about it while Jaskier flaunts himself across the tavern. His doublet is open, another thing that sets the witchers teeth on edge, swinging wide when the bard sashays about with his lute in hand, a dusting of chestnut hair poking out from the collar of his- stupidly expensive- embroidered jerkin. The crowd is positively devouring the man, hungry for his music and body alike. Like starved wolves and Geralt has to beat down an ugly, monstrous beast inside that screams _'mine!'_

Blue eyes sparkle, Geralt can see them even from across the room, skin dusted pink around a sea of unbridled joy, small wrinkles tightening the corners so _perfectly_ that he feels like he might be sick from the sight alone. The bard is eating it all up, immersed in his element among adoring fans and potential lovers. He laughs and flirts, accepting drinks that seem to sprout from the crowd like dandelions in a spring meadow. And that's- a damn good metaphor, actually, perhaps the poet has rubbed off on him. 

He looks away, has to before the minstrel notices his stare, he'll know Geralt's bothered, he always fucking knows. There's a pretty blonde at the bar and Geralt makes eyes at her instead. At least he tries too. His face tends to scowl no matter what he feels. The blonde looks his direction, smiles sweetly, then turns the other way, clear dismissal. Maybe she knows what's good for her. Geralt growls to himself and concentrates on draining his flagon as quickly as possible. 

Jaskier bounds up to his corner, all smiles and flushed skin and Geralt's gut tightens at the sight. He feels a little sick again. Then the bard is falling to the bench at his side, weight like nothing yet somehow still _incredibly heavy_ on his arm. He smiles, a brilliant, glowing thing that makes the witcher warm in places he wasn't aware could even be warm; the tips of his ears, the sharp point of his nose, the palms of his hands. 

"Are you drunk?" And it's such a _stupid_ question coming from a man who is quite literally swaying while seated and Geralt just snorts in amusement. "Was that a laugh? You're _defin_ \- hic, oh." Jaskier giggles and suddenly the witchers heart beats almost like a normal man's. "Am I drunk?" Why is he reacting like this? Why does Jaskier's touch feel like hot coals? Why is his mouth so goddamn _dry?_ Geralt licks his lips, trying to find his composure somewhere under the sudden confusion whirling up in his head.

He's about to say something- _anything-_ when a shadow casts over them and a gruff voice asks if someone is bothering him. Words die in his throat, already not his most refined skill, suddenly tangled in the rush of hows and whys and _what does it mean?_ Jaskier doesn't suffer from that particular affliction and answers with another drunken laugh, leaning forward to pat the intruder's arm. Geralt wants to break it off. "No, darling," he snorts, dissolving into a fit of wanton cackles that should be grating his nerves, but aren't. "We're quite alright, here, thank you." It's fine, the looming shadow is going to leave and Geralt will have a moment to figure out what it is the bard is doing to him. Then it doesn't and the man remains, glaring at him. Not one to be undone, the witcher glares right back and Jaskier nudges him in the side. "Be polite, Geralt." 

The man scoffs, thick hands rest on his hips. "The _Butcher."_ And, _oh_ how Geralt despises that title. His jaw flexes, teeth bared in a vicious snarl the must have been rather loud because the tavern slowly winds down around them. "I could offer better company than he." And- that's it, the bastard has to die now. 

Geralt reaches for a sword, intent on driving one of them through a lung when Jaskier takes the reigns. Clearing his throat as he stands, one leg still tangled with Geralt's under the table, he puts on a prize winning smile and pats the man's broad chest. "Your interest and concern are flattering, dear," light fingers linger on a bearded jaw, breathing is becoming a struggle through the growls trying to escape, "but Geralt has been my companion for many years and I simply cannot resist the chance to spend an evening where we are not beneath the threat of imminent death, drunken and dazed." He presses a coin to a meaty paw, and bats long lashes over azure gems. "Have a drink on your humble bard, for your troubles." 

Impossibly, it works. The- _dead man walking-_ gives another second to watch Jaskier reclaim his seat, the witchers arm now perched casually cross the back of their bench, and makes for the bar. The village folk turn back to their drinks, cutting curious expectant looks between the stranger and the pair of drunken fools in the corner for a while after. Geralt hums, tries to ignore how much _better_ he feels with the bard under his wing. "You didn't have to." And it tastes like poison, but he's compelled to fill the silence more now than ever.

"No," Jaskier sighs, glassy eyes somehow faraway even though he's staring intently at a water spot on the table, "but 'tis true. I'd rather spend the evening with you." The smile is a little sad, a little broken now and _gods,_ Geralt hates that even more. And, very suddenly, he knows what this feeling is. He can smell it wafting off the bard in droves; wilted roses and saltwater and the bitter taste of lovesickness.

_"You smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak."_

And he does. _He does._ It's precisely why he keeps everyone at arms length. Everyone except a certain princess, a mage he unwittingly bound himself to, and the man who had followed him for years no matter how sullen and cruel he was. And dammit _he knows_ coincidence doesn't bring people together in such a way. Destiny has her murky, bloodstained claws all over this one. 

And- _How did this happen?_

"Fuck."

And- _Why now?_

"Geralt?" 

And- _what do I do with this?_

"Is something wrong?" Worry lines have formed across the bard's forehead and around his eyes. They cut his rounded, boyish features in ways they just shouldn't. Jaskier should smile, laugh, _sing,_ not be riddled with suspicion and paranoia. Sapphire orbs dart back and forth, searching for a threat, a monster, and- _I made him like this._

Geralt's tongue feels like lead, heavy while he wars with himself. Jaskier looks to him again, concerned and confused and the Witcher is fucking _frozen_ in the moment because that bitter salty odor is pouring from the seams of his own armor and he can't reconcile that knowledge with reality. Even though he's seen the way Jaskier looks at him when the minstrel thinks he's unaware, noted the gentle tone and lingering touches, knows how the smaller form feels tucked against his side for warmth, is _intimately_ aware of how much ground he's given the other man and still remains unsure of when, exactly, he began letting the walls down. Did they tumble all at once or was it methodical, brick by brick? 

God _damnit_ he needs to say something. 

"Jaskier…" And they're so close now, warmth spreading from shoulder to knee, the troubadour's ankle hooked around his boot. When did that happen? Jaskier is looking at him with such unadulterated adoration that Geralt feels weak with it. He knows what's coming next because he's kissed his fair share of people over the decades, yet he's still somehow surprised when the distance between them closes. 

Maybe he just didn't expect to be the one making the move. 

  
  
  



	2. Wanting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gentle hand taps Geralt's shoulder and to his surprise the man jerks away as if struck. "Geralt?" Jaskier asks, worry making his voice rise towards the end. 
> 
> The hood shakes back and forth. "Don't." 
> 
> But Jaskier does because that's who Jaskier is, a man who does when he should not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo boy, I had to come back write some steamy bits. I am WEAK and WANTING and this fandom DELIVERS. Barring my unimaginative titles, I did work quite hard on this work so I do hope you enjoy. Be well, dear readers.

They don't talk about it. Not that night in their lumpy straw bed. Or the next morning as they awkwardly untangle from one another and shuffle into yesterday's clothes. Geralt mumbles about prepping Roach for the journey and disappears as soon as his boots are strapped. He doesn't wait for a response and Jaskier has no desire to loiter about the stables with a moody Witcher so he makes use packing their room, pondering how his life is currently flying off the handle. 

When did that begin exactly? 

Ah yes, right around the time that Geralt of fucking Rivia kissed him. 

Unprompted. In public. The lightest brush of cool skin against his own, heated by ale and laughter. His heart had threatened to leap right out of his throat the very moment his brain managed to process the act. His own fingers had brushed his lips in bafflement and he must have truly looked a fool because Geralt laughed over the rim of his beaten tankard. 

Geralt made the move, but they still aren't talking about it. Because Jaskier knows how touchy his friend can be so he doesn't ask. And his Witcher, who is eloquently versed in methods of oppressive silence, says nothing. 

Until the next time they find an inn. The early evening is spent drinking while Jaskier sings the witchers praises to a crowd who pays well enough that they can live comfortably for a short while. His purse is heavy when he drops it on the table and takes a seat beside his broody companion in the shadowed booth. Maybe that's a Witcher skill, finding dark corners to hide. He giggles at the thought and Geralt gets that same half-hungry, half-constipated look on his face and looms into the bards space. It happens slower this time and Geralt maintains eye contact with every inch that vanishes between them, as if asking. Like he even needs to. Whether it's ale or atmosphere or some cosmic force that has opened this door, Jaskier knows a gift horse when he sees one. So before Geralt can think himself out of it, Jaskier seals their lips. The contact only lasts a few precious beats, but it feels like eons when he blinks back to reality, almost surprised to find that they're still in the tavern and not floating on puffy clouds. Geralt cocks his head curiously, studies the minstrels face for a moment and then leans back as if nothing happened. 

A proper bastard, that Geralt of Rivia. 

The third time they're both exhausted from a hunt. What was thought to be a solitary werewolf turned out to be three, uncontrolled and feral. The fight had taken twice as long and the Witcher walked away with a few new scars for his collection, angry red trails down his outer thigh. Jaskier wants nothing more than a strong drink and a warm bed- and a good look at that wound the surly man insists is just a scratch- but Geralt demands food so they find yet another shaded table and order the house special. This tavern is quieter than the others and the bard has no desire to change that for once, drained from a sleepless night and more than ready to retire by the time mutton has been eaten and boiled vegetables have been suitably picked through. 

Geralt's approach is different this time. With less witnesses perhaps he's feeling bold as rough fingers trace the bards jaw gently and warm breath ghosts over his ear. He leans into the touch, blinking up at the scarred hunter. There hasn't been enough ale to inhibit their state of mind and the atmosphere is dreary at best so when Geralt grins and kisses his cheek Jaskier doesn't know what to do with himself. It seems like a step back and a sudden lurch forward at the same time with no warning to brace for impact. Geralt noses into his hair, inhaling deeply, and lets out a pleasant rumble that only they can hear. Jaskier shudders, starts to slide closer to the other man- Geralt, this is Geralt- then jerks back because…

What if this is nothing? 

What if he is just another conquest, another warm body? Can he live with that? Can he let his heart be made only to be minced to fine powder? The Witcher is different, important, destined. None of his past lovers hold a candle to the man at his side and the thought frightens him beyond all reason because it's the one time he won't be able to let go. 

He'll never get over Geralt of Rivia. Not in a thousand lifetimes. Not with an endless harem at his disposal. On the other hand, this may be his only chance to have anything more than a passing friendship, to get anywhere near what he truly desires. Is it worth it? 

Geralt watches him, patient and pensive, neither pressing forward nor pulling back. He is a gentleman, even if he can't see it and maybe that's enough for now. So Jaskier drags the contact out a little longer than before, twines a strand of snowy hair around his finger, swipes the tip of his tongue along the seam of Geralt's lips and pulls away to sip his ale. The witcher is stiff at his side, shoulders rising and falling in Jaskier's peripheral with more effort than usual. For a moment all Geralt does is stare before clearing his throat and tossing back his own drink. 

Their fourth kiss is messier, unplanned in the rush after a contract. Geralt forbade the bards accompaniment under the guise that a gryphon was too dangerous a foe to watch both their backs. And perhaps that is true, but it doesn't mean Jaskier has to enjoy being left behind. He sulks about the room, mostly because he has the privacy to really get a good pout going, and yes, also due to the irrefutable fact that Geralt- the White Wolf- of Rivia is a horses arse who can't use his mouth for more worthy endeavours than stealing a bards heart. 

The Witcher returns a mere three hours from his departure, a short hunt by their standards, bursting through the door without so much as a knock and then prowling across their room with his hood obscuring his face. Jaskier pretends to be fiddling with his lute (hah!), wary gaze watching the foreboding form in his peripheral . "Geralt?" All that earns is a muffled grunt as the man guzzles ale straight from the pitcher. Jaskier leans back on the mattress, scratches at thinning sheets, drags his teeth across his lower lip. "Bad hunt?" 

The Witcher snorts. "Gryphon was weak, starving." Clipped and uneven, similar to when he's been wounded yet there's no lameness to be seen and his armor is immaculate, not a rivet out of place or buckle loose. "I felled an elk, left it at the base of the mountain. If the beast is smart it won't return." He offers the explanation to dingy wall panels. 

Jaskier let's himself smile, just like his Witcher to do something so selfless. "Not to fret." The troubadour assures, making a slow path over uneven floorboards that creak to herald his approach. "The town is big enough to make good money by way of my talents as well." A gentle hand taps Geralt's shoulder and to his surprise the man jerks away as if struck. "Geralt?" Jaskier asks, worry making his voice rise towards the end. 

The hood shakes back and forth. "Don't." 

But Jaskier does because that's who Jaskier is, a man who does when he should not. 

"Are you hurt?" 

"Jaskier-"

"You sound strained." His hands fly over the back of his Witchers armor, shoving the cloak aside to ensure his companion is truly unharmed. 

Geralt shivers and his shoulders tense, puffing up an already impressive stature to make him look even larger, "Jaskier-"

"I can't help if you don't tell me." Down broad sides now, feeling for blood and torn leather. Geralt snarls, a sound the bard has only had directed towards himself a handful of times which, subsequently, filled him with a titch of maniacal glee on each occasion. Before he knows it the room has spun and he has his back to a wall, powerful hands keeping his biceps pinned. 

"I'm. Not. Hurt." Geralt bites out, teeth bared, but the bard isn't looking at his mouth like he usually does when they find themselves in close proximity. That ocean blue stare is directed solidly to Geralt's own, lips parted in a small 'o', and the Witcher forces himself not to look away. "I expected a fight so I prepared for one." He supposes that fear is the expected response, rejection, disgust, yet Jaskier feels none of those things when he peers into dark pools where Geralt's normally vibrant irises glow. He sees beauty and strength, goodness in shadow, sacrifice for code. 

Exploratory fingers trace a strong jaw, pronounced cheekbones, slowing as they come to the outer corners of blackened eyes and Jaskier smiles. "You make this look very good, darling." It's shameless and gods his mother would have fainted if she knew, but she was world's away and now is a bad time to think of his mother at any rate. Geralt appears conflicted, blinking rapidly and swaying between pressing forward or stepping back so Jaskier bats his lashes, strains up as far as he can, and noses the Witchers chin. 

That seems to rattle his impressive self control. 

~~

This kiss is harsh and frantic. Nothing like their previous brushes. Jaskier tastes of lemonade and afternoons spent in grassy fields and the salty stew they served downstairs, laced with that weed he likes to stuff in his pipe. It's fucking delicious. A desperate hunger settles in Geralt's gut, the inner wolf thrashing in its bonds. Geralt starts to lose himself to it, pressing back harder until the smaller man is forced bodily against the wall. 

Jaskier pulls away with a gasp and Geralt takes a moment to fill his lungs with air before he can taste the blood. "Oh…" Jaskier thumbs his split lip, staring at the crimson smear for a moment while his pupils expand. "You...your teeth.." he breathes.

"Sharper than you expected?" The witcher grins, but there's a strain in it. His inhumanity is a double edged sword. 

"I should...probably be frightened of that," Jaskier says, gaze trained on the witcher's mouth, but he doesn't smell of fear. If anything, the fever seems to have spiked and his hips jerk against Geralt's thigh. 

"And yet…" Geralt leans in again, tongue deftly lapping up copper fluid, allows himself the pleasure of savoring the bards taste, "here we are." 

Jaskier shudders, full bodied, eyes rolling to the back of his head, lets out a lewd little whine. "Oh you- fucking beast of a man." And he descends on the Witchers mouth like someone starved of it, shoves at his chest for leverage, steers them towards the bed with his tongue down Geralt's throat. Leather bound calves meet the wooden frame and he lets Jaskier push him to sit on the mattress, watches hungrily as a navy doublet slides down slim arms to crumple on the floor, as his hips are bracketed between surprisingly strong thighs. "You've no idea how often I dreamt this." The bard says with a breathy laugh, nimble digits sinking into Geralt's hair, angling his head for better access to his mouth. 

Blood rushes in the witchers ears, heart pounding so hard his ribs feel the strain, elixirs are still thrumming through his system with little electrifying shocks that are starting to make his cock pulse in time and he groans low when Jaskier grinds on him in response. "I can smell it on you." A stuttered whine escapes his bard and hands made for killing grip the hem of his chemise, tugging it loose so he can feel even more. Jaskier is made of silk masterfully tailored over lean muscle, dusted with downy hairs. How the man manages to stay soft while traveling with a Witcher is a secret healers don't want him spilling, surely. Geralt feels his hands tremble, bites his cheek for grounding, breaks away to remove the thin shirt entirely. "You look at me like a treasure." Jaskier hiccups a little, shivering and wide eyed, but holds the Witchers stare, "I don't understand, but I want more of it." He worries porcelain shoulders until bruises rise, until his bard is panting and whining, bouncing impatiently on that ridiculously supple arse. The Witcher growls and he shudders like prey should, but still only smells of spice and want and the wolf is ravenous for more, more, more. 

Geralt flips them, grips his newfound lovers hips in a silent command to stay, and swiftly divests himself of the studded armor. The hollow thuds a each heavy piece hits the hardwood is most definitely heard downstairs, but Geralt doesn't pause to consider any accidental vuoyerism before settling his weight between the minstrels legs and nosing a path through dark hair from clavicle to navel. "Jaskier…" he places a kiss on the bards belly, feeling hard muscle beneath a soft layer of fat, "is this okay?"

The younger man whines, tugging his own hair and bucking into the Witchers chest. "Melitele help me if you stop now, Geralt." Teeth flash in a grin, silk slides down slender hips and taught thighs to be forgotten somewhere on the dusty floor. Jaskier is soft in all the right places and malleable in ways the Witcher can't remember being, while remaining oh so hard in others. Geralt nearly purrs at the sight of his lovers length, red capped and dripping, sweet musk permeating the room until their lungs are thick with it. 

His head drops, watching Jaskier's lids fly open as he samples the pearl of fluid at his tip. A litany of pure filth falls from the man's swollen lips, 

"Geralt you magnificent-"

"yes,"

"taste me, oh,"

"oh gods,"

"fuck, fuck!" 

Is all he can really catch amongst the half formed phrases, but none of it is 'stop' or 'no' so he continues using his tongue to trace every throbbing detail of Jaskier's delectable cock while beautifully serenaded. "Mmmf- you are right talent-ah!" And the bard wails when Geralt swallows him down, blunt nails scraping over the witchers scalp. It's loud enough that Geralt has half a mind to double check that the door is locked, but then Jaskier fists his hair, sapphire eyes wide and watching as his hips snap up to fuck his Witchers mouth. While Geralt hasn't done this nearly as many times as one might expect, he does have excellent control of his own body, suppressing his gag reflex enough to choke down every inch of his lovers length is an easy feat. Geralt hums and swallows, relishing the taste, the weight and Jaskier makes a noise like someone punched the air out of him. "I'm-" That's all the warning he can manage, spilling down the Witchers throat with a strangled moan. Geralt works him through it, suckling until his softened cock falls weakly from swollen lips, rubbing small circles into quivering thighs. 

"That...is not how this usually goes for me, I swear." Jaskier mumbles, one arm thrown over his face, but it isn't enough to hide the bright red flush. Geralt hums something similar to laughter, presses open mouthed kisses to the bards sweaty flesh on his way back to smother whatever embarrassment the bard is trying to talk himself out of. A smile meets his lips, thin yet defined arms circling his shoulders to keep him close. "You are wonderful at that." Geralt grunts to hide how infuriatingly pleased he is with the praise, that he made the promiscuous musician finish in mere minutes where others have failed entirely feels too good for his brittle, greedy heart to contain. He wants to bite, to mark, his wolf howls for it, Cat and Owl pump his blood ever faster with no end in sight. Jaskier looks so pliable beneath him, vulnerable in that post orgasm haze and the Witcher hungers. 

He smiles, eyes gleaming with adoration, "Can I finish you, my Witcher?" It's a purr from that mouth, as much an invitation as it is compulsion, and fuck Geralt is weak to it. He nods, mute and dumb as Jaskier rolls him to his back with gentle nudges that feel unnatural and perfect. Jaskier means to return the favor in full, mirroring their earlier positions and unlacing Geralt's trousers with a sly smile...which quickly changes to slack jawed shock as the hunters thick shaft rises from the nesting of silver-white hair. 

"Oh, sweet mother above." Jaskier curses, one hand coming to rest on a bright red cheek as he stares directly between Geralt's legs. The witcher quirks a brow, barbs of insecurity digging into his spine. He's been turned down at this point before, lovers suddenly losing their nerve by his size. Jaskier isn't a typical lover though. He snaps his jaw back up, licks his lips and gives Geralt a squeeze. The Witcher groans, head falling back to the pillows, sheets threatening to shred in his hands. "I'm going to be quite honest here," Jaskier pipes and Geralt fucking prays he won't continue, but he always does, "your cock is a fucking work of art, Geralt. I mean, good lords, have you seen this thing?" And he punctuates the question with a slow stroke that does tear the sheets, audibly. 

He wants to bark that he has, obviously, been acquainted with his own dick for the better part of a century. Jaskier keeps stroking, though, and he's having trouble getting his tongue to cooperate enough to form more than heedy gasps. A lute callous brushes over his tip, smearing pre over the plump head and Geralt curses loudly. "I'm not sure I've taken anything this big before," and there's a tinge of uncertainty that makes the witcher cringe. Then spice and daffodils fill his senses and Jaskier laps at his sack, lips catching wrinkled skin and God's he hasn't had a lover this attentive in decades. "Don't worry, darling, I can make up for what I can't take in my mouth just as well." His grin is pure wickedness against Geralt's swollen, throbbing erection, tongue curling around as much of him as the bard can manage as he slides up to the flared tip. Gentle nips rain down and Geralt fucking whines, jolting towards the teasing heat. 

This is- beyond anything. Jaskier's boasting had always seemed over the top, but here and now he was doing something inhuman, cruel even. Music was his claim of profession while clearly the man's true skills lay in the bedroom. If Geralt hadn't been immune to magics he would have suspected the bard to be a vampire or incubus, some beastling or demon that fed on pleasure. He scents, just to be sure, and it's still Jaskier, spice and flowers and freedom coating the roof of his mouth like a drug. Geralt doesn't want to fight it, so he doesn't, letting his mouth run as Jaskier fucking finally sucks him down. 

His gag reflex kicks in about halfway and the bard grunts, brows knotted in concentration. It must be pushing his limits, jaw tense and wide, the desire doesn't fade from his eyes though and he winks. Hands as soft and deft as Geralt imagined circle the remainder of his length, stroking and squeezing in tandem with the hollowing of cheeks and flick of a flexible tongue. The Witcher knows he doesn't last long, but it feels like eternity and he burns with every touch. Just before the coil snaps, he shoves the bard away to stripe himself to release, hot ribbons coating up to his chest, catching on his body hair like dew on morning grass. 

Jaskier crawls back up his side and nuzzles his cheek, presses a soft kiss to his stubble that feels good and awful too, guilty that he still aches for more. He's too blissed out to protest so he allows it, feels the potions burning away and the room shifts slightly out of focus, less in depth than it had been in that last few hours. Geralt blinks the dysphoric sensation away, inadvertently meets the bards guarded gaze, and sighs. 

"I would have swallowed, you know." He picks at the pillowcase. 

"Might've poisoned you." Geralt huffs, hoarse in the wake of what must have been a vocal orgasm.

"Oh." Jaskier looks flustered, gaze darting off to the right, "is that a thing? Witcher... uhm...semen. It's toxic?" One hand rubs at the pale, inviting column of his throat and he visibly swallows. 

Geralt barks a laugh, a real one and shakes his head. "No," he grabs blindly at the floor, snags the first piece of cloth he touches to wipe the mess away and tosses it back down carelessly, "the potions make my bodily fluids toxic. Namely my piss, but I wasn't going to chance killing you on the first blow job if I could help it." 

And he doesn't miss how the bard perks at the mention of a next time, oh if only he knew the things Geralt wanted to do to him. "Morbidly considerate of you, Witcher." His bard croons, draping over his chest like he belongs there. And fuck it, honestly, Geralt feels around this man- this human- who refuses to leave his side despite deaths and danger. It wouldn't be Jaskier if things came easy, he was a catch, desired everywhere he set foot, a treasure. The man deserves to be held like one so the Witcher does. Cradles the one person who brings joy to his life, let's himself enjoy the tenderness while it lasts. 

The rest can be dealt with in the morning, or the afternoon, he doesn't plan to release Jaskier from this bed for a good while yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for the beautiful comments. 💜 I'm an actual ghost so I can't respond to them induvidually most of the time, but every word means the world to me!


End file.
